Chapter 7: The Dutchman

White Collar Division, January 24, 2005. Monday afternoon.

During the afternoon briefing, Peter had told Neal to focus on the Dutchman and that's what he intended to do. He still had a few hours remaining in the afternoon before he needed to leave for evening classes.

In the past Neal had always been the forger out to fool the authorities. Now the tables were turned. How skilled was he at unmasking one? He had in his possession not only the Corot painting but also several suspected forgeries by the Dutchman. Could he make a case for the Corot forgery also having been painted by the Dutchman? Neal knew he wouldn't be able to leave the mystery alone till he'd cracked it. This was one time Mozzie would be of limited help. He wasn't the art expert. This was Neal's bailiwick. Solving the mystery of the Dutchman would prove his art chops to the dimwits in D.C. who didn't think they needed an art crimes investigator in New York.

For the time being he put aside the bond forgeries and concentrated on the paintings. He'd decided his best shot at uncovering a tell from the forger would be an analysis of the paint pigments. Starting with the Titian, he was methodically going through the pigments, identifying them by their source. Raman spectroscopy was the best and fastest non-destructive method he knew of, but it was still going to take days of work.

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"You're not going to Columbia this evening?"

Startled, Neal turned away from the microscope to see Travis. He already had his coat on and was ready to leave. Neal glanced at his watch and grimaced. Six o'clock. He was going to have to hustle to make his appointment.

"Lost track of time. Thanks. I should have left an hour ago." Neal got busy shutting down his computer.

"I know the feeling," Travis said, helping him to turn off the equipment. "What do you have on tonight?"

"Seminar on abstract expressionism. I'm scheduled to meet Sherkov, my advisor, first." Fortunately Neal had already returned the other materials to the evidence locker. He only had to carry the Titian back. But even with Travis's help, it took thirty minutes before he was on the subway for Columbia. No time to stop and eat, but Neal grabbed a granola bar from the break room on his way out.

He made it to Sherkov's office in Schermerhorn Hall with one minute to spare. Sherkov was sitting at his desk, a large open book in front of him. He'd been examining a plate of a Giorgione painting—Boy with an Arrow. Research for the next day's class perhaps. Sherkov had called for the meeting and Neal assumed it was to discuss his coursework, although it seemed too early to discuss his final paper or the next term.

After a few remarks about the Giorgione in front of him, Sherkov switched topics. "Your appraisal of the Corot at Weatherby's was quite impressive. There are few people I know who could have voiced an opinion like that, and none of them is a grad student with only one semester completed. I'm told the Met confirmed your opinion."

"That's right." Neal was taken aback by what Sherkov wanted to talk about. At the time he'd been so focused on the painting, he hadn't thought about how it would look to others. He hadn't stopped to consider the repercussions of a first year grad student demonstrating an expertise with authentication. He'd grown careless. Had he wakened the bear in Sherkov?

"When I asked you for an explanation of how you were able to make that determination, you were unsatisfyingly vague. Perhaps you could make another attempt."

Sherkov wasn't going to be content with simple deflection. But the real explanation—what he'd given Peter—of being schooled on Corot forgery techniques was out of the question. Neal hoped the background supplied by the Marshals would be enough to let the matter drop. "I grew up in Paris and was fortunate to have access to a series of wonderful teachers plus outstanding museums to visit. As I explained when you saw that painting I'd done in the style of Honthorst, my art teachers believed in teaching through copying the old masters. I have an affinity for that."

Sherkov settled back in his leather chair and rocked slowly. "It's more than that surely. The kind of ability you demonstrated to evaluate a painting from the artist's perspective is an innate gift. That brings me to what I'd like to discuss with you. Neal, I'd like to recommend you for the PhD program."

That was startling. Neal had never considered going for a PhD. Getting any kind of degree was still a dream. He hadn't even graduated from high school and was waiting for the first diploma for his wall. Dr. Neal Caffrey?

His shock must have been apparent to Sherkov. "Clearly that wasn't something you were contemplating, but I think you should. While you retrieve your jaw off the floor, allow me to continue. I know many don't feel art history is that relevant to a career in today's society, but for you it's a natural. You could specialize in art authentication. Surely the FBI would support you in your efforts."

"But how I would find the time? Going for a master's has been difficult enough with the hours I'm required to keep."

"You'd be performing research, not taking classes, so your schedule would be much more flexible than what you have now. You already scored high enough on the entrance exams that you won't need to take additional courses in chemistry. That's considered by many to be one of the most challenging aspects to art authentication. In addition, your knowledge of metallurgy fits in well to the program. As you know Columbia only offers a very limited admittance to the program, presently about fifteen students. If you're admitted, you'll receive full funding, including a tuition and stipend. It will be my pleasure to act as your sponsor." Sherkov paused to let his words sink in. "You should consider it strongly. You don't have to tell me immediately, but you should make a decision by mid-March."

Sherkov continued to promote the program to Neal for several minutes, but at the end Neal was still left with mixed emotions. The negatives were staring him in the face. Committing to a program that would probably take three years on top of the two years he'd already signed up for had minimal appeal when he was already chafing to be finished with his master's. On top of that were the other headwinds. How would it affect his work with the FBI? Would he feel too constrained by the demands? Too tied down?

Neal continued to consider Sherkov's proposal during his seminar. Jackson Pollock's abstracts were the topic, but when Neal looked at them, all he saw was an indecipherable vision of his own future. Midway through the seminar he received another demand on his attention when Mozzie texted him: thrush23690345.

That roused him from thoughts of a doctorate better than any abstract painting. Once Mozzie had claimed Columbia's network of tunnels as his own private highway system, he'd devised a code for the various tunnel exits. Over the past few months the two of them had conducted a thorough exploration of Columbia's elaborate tunnel system. Mozzie's initial trepidation over possible bacterial residue from the nineteenth century had given way in the face of his overwhelming love for the clandestine routes the tunnels provided. They'd discovered how to access several forbidden tunnel pathways and found a few of the rumored tunnels which had formerly only been hinted at. They could now traverse most of the campus undetected. Mozzie had taken it to the next level by giving Neal an extensive list of codes based on bird names for different types of emergencies and instructed him to commit it to memory. The numbers referred to the location and date. In this case, 2369 meant the courtyard of Schermerhorn Hall where his seminar was being held, and 0345 referred to the time of 2115. Thrush was not as severe an alert as osprey but it was bumping against plover.

Last Wednesday Mozzie had been incensed about the plight of the yellow-faced bee. What was it now? Had Godzilla been spotted in New York? Neal chastised himself for not taking it more seriously. He realized that lately Mozzie's so-called emergencies had been so flakey, if he ever did have a genuine one, he might have a difficult time getting Neal to believe it. He attributed it to Mozzie not having a legitimate mystery to work on. His mind wandered off into unexplored territory when he had nothing substantive to focus on.

He'd seen Mozzie on Saturday and everything was fine. What could go wrong in forty-eight hours? Neal realized he might as well give up on Jackson Pollock for the evening. Reality was making any reflections on abstracts a non-starter.

As soon as the seminar was over, Neal headed outside. He found Mozzie, bundled up in a Columbia blue rugby knit scarf and knitted hat in the courtyard outside the hall. Just another student, Neal thought with a grin.

Mozzie motioned for him to walk with him through the quad. As if acknowledging Neal's unspoken questions, he said, "Don't mock me, but this could be serious. I received a call today from the Space Suit."

"Space Suit?" Was Mozzie in communication with the International Space Station? But if he'd heard from NASA, surely that would have been coded tanager. "You mean Travis?"

"Naturally, the Space Suit," he repeated. "He was elevated to Space Suit from a mere Vulcanized one on Saturday. He asked me if I'd like to go to a SETI meeting with him. You know what that means."

"It means he thought you'd be interested. I knew he was going to call."

"Clever," Mozzie muttered. "An obvious attempt to make the offer seem casual. At first I'd suspected a trap, but then I reasoned Travis wouldn't be their agent."

That was a major breakthrough. Travis had chipped away at Mozzie's concrete wall of mistrust of anyone at the FBI. He'd already warmed up to Peter, now he was doing the same with Travis. "So are you going?"

"This is where it gets tricky, because if the Space Suit's asking me, it's because something big may be on the horizon, big as in apocalyptic, end of the world—"

Neal cut in hastily. "I hardly think that's what Travis had in mind. He didn't appear to be concerned about an alien invasion when we talked."

"How did he seem to you?"

"Oh, I dunno, fine. Normal Travis."

"Did his eyes appear glassy? Did he walk stiffly, as if controlled by someone?" At this, Mozzie started to walk with the jerky motions of an uncoordinated robot. Neal stepped back to enjoy the performance. He could be a hit at a dance party. One of the students passing by actually stopped to clap.

"I'm confident he hasn't been possessed by space aliens," Neal said firmly. "He simply thought you'd enjoy attending the meeting. Where's it being held?"

"Pupin Hall on campus. An astronomy professor, Daniel Leavitt, runs the meetings. I've begun vetting him. On the surface he appears capable. Doctorate from Berkeley. Leavitt's specialty is in cosmic structure. Has written several papers on a pet subject of mine, dark matter. Interesting research into gravitational waves. So far, all well and good but my findings aren't complete."

"Travis offered to give me a lift to Columbia tomorrow. How about joining us for a quick meal first? We could meet at the Emporium."

"Perfect. While you talk, I can assess the Space Suit further. Perhaps run a few non-invasive tests."

"You're a good man, Mozz."

White Collar Division, January 25, 2005. Tuesday afternoon.

"The Dutchman can't hide anymore."

As Neal pronounced his words of triumph, Peter took a moment to study his normally impeccably dressed consultant. They were sitting in his niche in the lab. It was now four o'clock. Neal had already been at work when Peter had arrived at 7:30 a.m. and apparently only rarely had taken a break. He obviously hadn't looked at a mirror or he would have done something about the smudge on his cheek. Neal had taken off his jacket, his tie was loosened, and eyes bloodshot from excessive monitor-staring, but all that was irrelevant compared to the jubilation written all over his face.

Peter had checked in on him a few times over the past couple of days, but aside from lunch breaks and mandatory briefings, Neal had kept to himself, focusing exclusively on the forgeries. His ability to bury himself in his work was oddly reminiscent of Mozzie, although at least he didn't mutter in Latin. It was, when you thought about it, rather astonishing. Here was a guy who if you handed him a mortgage fraud case, would utter theatrical sighs of excessive boredom from merely picking up the file and would spend the rest of the time thinking of ways to get out of the task. But if you gave him an art case, he was a different person. Arriving early, staying late, he had a tenacity to match even Peter's. It was one of many reasons they could relate to each other so well.

"Okay, show me what you got, hotshot," Peter said, rolling over a chair. He refused to let himself get too excited. He was more than half-convinced Neal was too exhausted to think straight, but he didn't want to dismiss it out of hand.

"Hansa," Neal said forcefully and repeated the word to reinforce his point. "Hansa. It's so obvious—we got him now."

What was obvious was that Mozzie's love of obscure topics was rubbing off on Neal. "Hansa? As in the Hanseatic League?" Peter dredged up what little he remembered about the Hanseatic League from his college history course. Medieval merchant guilds somewhere in northern Europe. Maybe Holland? "The Dutchman is connected to the Hanseatic League?"

Neal looked at him, bewildered. "No, Peter, hansa as in hansa yellow. Although now that you mention it, that's an intriguing link. I've been analyzing the paint pigments in the paintings. They're all authentic to the period with one glaring exception—the yellow. It should be cadmium yellow. Instead the Dutchman used hansa yellow. Hansa yellow to the eye looks remarkably similar and has several advantages to cadmium yellow. It's become the yellow of choice for artists, but it behaves differently when mixed and more to the point it was first made in Germany in 1911." Neal eyed Peter expectantly.

"So, you're telling me hansa yellow didn't exist when Corot painted The Dreamer?"

"Exactly."

"But we already know the painting is a forgery. How does this help us?"

"The Dutchman not only used hansa yellow for the apron of the girl in the Corot painting but he also used it in the lace filigree on Titian's Salome and the witch's skirt in the Goya. Hell, it's even in two of the bonds that were sent over. The guy's in love with hansa yellow. And not only that, he rushes the aging process. You know what craquelure is, right?"

"Yeah, it's the crackle on old oil paintings."

"That's right. Forging the correct craquelure is incredibly difficult. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You have to consider the brushwork, the age of the painting, the paints, the canvas, the atmosphere, what conditions it was kept in over the years, usually centuries . . . you get the idea."

"I do. I knew it was difficult but what you're saying makes it sound almost impossible."

Neal shrugged. "To achieve a perfect duplication, I'd have to agree. The best is simply a close approximation. That Vermeer painting I did last fall?"

"The Woman in Blue?"

"That's right. It was the best I've ever done, but I couldn't perfectly duplicate the craquelure."

Peter was beginning to understand Neal's obsession with the topic. Neal's painting was now in storage in the Bureau's vault. Peter had wanted to obtain an evaluation on the quality of the forgery and had sent it to D.C. Art Crimes. The verdict from the authentication expert they retained was that it was the best Vermeer forgery he'd ever seen. He didn't mention any issue with the craquelure. Only Neal thought there was a problem with it.

Neal pointed to the craquelure on the Titian. "An art forger tends to develop his own technique to imitate craquelure and in the process, if he's not careful, he creates a distinct, recognizable style. It's not as precise as a fingerprint but can be almost as valid."

"Can you identify the Dutchman's style?"

Neal nodded. "I believe I can. The Dutchman rushes the aging process. He doesn't take the time to verify each layer is dry before adding another one. He disrespects the artist by using inauthentic paints and sometimes inappropriate techniques. The combination of craquelure and hansa means we have him."

"All we need now is the name." Peter laid a hand on Neal's shoulder. "This is very impressive work, Neal."

"Thanks," he said with a tired grin.

"This niche you've carved out for yourself is paying big dividends for us."

"Do you think it will make it easier to get funding for equipment? I could really use some extra resources."

Peter shook his head doubtfully. "If you can justify it by showing the equipment is needed not just for art analysis but for document authentication, we may be able to."

"Couldn't Art Crimes use a branch office in New York?"

"I can talk sometime to Kramer about it, but realistically, I wouldn't get your hopes up. We're in a period of tight budgetary restraints. Look, I know how much you enjoy this kind of work, but you're in White Collar, not Art Crimes. You have to accept that the majority of our cases don't involve art works. You've been lucky to have as many as you have." Peter didn't want to burst Neal's bubble, but he had to accept that in an age of domestic terrorism, art crime was not a high focus for the FBI. The budget was minuscule and what little was available had been allocated to Kramer's group. He could predict in advance what Kramer's reaction would be to a request to share any funds with New York.

Neal winced in frustration. "Would it make any difference if I had a PhD?"

Shocked, Peter countered more sharply than he'd intended to. "You don't even have your master's and now you want to go for a PhD?"

Neal shrugged. "I spoke with Sherkov yesterday. He wants to recommend me for the PhD program at Columbia, specializing in art authentication." Neal proceeded to tell him how the program worked and what Sherkov's thoughts on the subject were.

"Have you decided if you're going to take him up on his offer?"

"No. When I first started Columbia, just going for my master's was a dream. I'd never considered going further. If I had a doctorate, it might be easier to persuade Art Crimes to let me work more cases here, but trying to pursue a PhD while working full time? I don't know if that's possible."

"How much additional time are we talking about?"

"Beyond the master's? Three long years. Supposedly, I wouldn't have to take many additional courses. Mainly I could work on my dissertation. I'd have to take oral exams in the spring of my third year and then would research my dissertation topic." Neal pushed his hair back with one hand. "It's just such a commitment, you know. Is it going to tie me down too much?"

"That might be one of the best things about it—it'd keep you from floating away. It's quite an honor that Sherkov wants to sponsor your candidature. You should give it serious consideration. When do you need to let him know?"

"Mid-March. If I don't want to apply, he needs to have time to support someone else."

"I guess I could get used to calling you Dr. Caffrey, although I don't know if Diana ever will."

Neal laughed. "Has there been any progress with the surveillance of Rinaldi's house?"

Peter shook his head. "Not so far. Jones and Diana are out there now."

Glancing at his watch, Neal said, "I better return these to the evidence locker. I'll have to leave for Columbia soon."

"Don't forget to wash up first unless you want to keep that smudge on your cheek."

Neal's eyes grew wide as he reached for a tissue. "Smudge? No wonder I was getting looks when I went for a coffee refill."

"Maybe you need to install a mirror in your niche? You want a lift to the subway? It's on my way."

"Thanks but I'm going with Travis. He has a SETI meeting tonight at Pupin Hall, and he's taking Mozzie along."

Peter laughed. "I'm looking forward to the report on that encounter."

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Neal had never seen Travis's car, and in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, he speculated what kind of vehicle he'd most likely drive. Cars were like dogs. The type owned made a statement about the owner. In Travis's case, maybe a hybrid, like the Honda Insight or the Toyota Prius, or would he go for something sportier? Neal grinned when he saw the silver compact. He'd guessed right—a Saturn Ion. What else would a Space Suit drive? On the drive over to Columbia Neal did his best to prepare Travis. His invitation had thrown Mozzie into a tailspin of consuming curiosity tempered by unadulterated apprehension at the thought of going anywhere with a suit, even if a space suit. On Saturday night Travis had only seen a glimpse of the paranoia he was about to experience.

They were fortunate in finding a parking space on West 110th Street, a short walk away from the Aloha Emporium. "UFOs are but one manifestation of Mozzie's conspiracy theory-oriented brain," Neal cautioned. "There are many others. Stick to safe subjects until you're used to it. The initial shock can be disorienting to the uninitiated."

Travis was skeptical of any issues. "Mozzie's no Klingon. He's much more a Ferengi like Quark. If he ventures too far into another dimension, I'll snap him back with a mind meld."

Neal eyed Travis suspiciously. If anyone else had said that, he'd know they were joking. With Travis, maybe not. Mozzie and he could well be kindred souls. That he already categorized Mozzie as Quark was a good omen.

Travis glanced over at him. "Are you going to enter the art competition at Tac-Con?"

"I hadn't given it much thought. I've never done much with science fiction."

"You should. There's a category for paintings, called 'Close Encounters.' You could use as a theme one of the paintings you made of the night of your kidnapping. Maybe that seascape?"

Neal considered his suggestion. The painting he was talking about showed a starfish monster emerging from a turbulent ocean of chaotic colors and shapes. It had been the image Azathoth had projected onto their cell wall during their kidnapping and was one of a series he'd painted for the Bureau to document the ordeal. He could use the imagery as a starting point and let his imagination run wild.

"I see I've sparked your interest," Travis said with a chuckle.

Neal grinned. "I admit it. I'd planned to attend anyway, if nothing else, to give Richard moral support. Perhaps I should enter the competition."

"You'll need to decide soon," he cautioned. "I shot the video for Richard last week. The deadline for submissions is the fourth of February."

"You have to submit a video?" This was going to be more complicated than he'd anticipated.

He nodded. "They're limiting the competition to only forty applicants in each category and using videos to weed out the candidates. You have to be recorded at work on your art and discuss not only it but other works you've done. They're using the videos to verify an artist isn't cheating by using someone else's work."

Okay, he was hooked. Hearing about the difficulty in being selected made the challenge all the more tempting. For the rest of the walk, Neal quizzed Travis on the details of the submission process. They agreed to meet at his studio on Saturday afternoon when Travis would record him.

When they entered the Emporium, they found Mozzie waiting for them at one of the tables in the café. Neal waved at him as they headed to the counter to place their orders. The Emporium was the only place Neal knew of in New York that served pokes, the Hawaiian version of sashimi. Travis had never tried the dish so they both ordered it. At the Emporium all the pokes came with rice and seaweed salad and were substantial enough for a meal.

They then walked over to join Mozzie at his table. He had an open bottle of honey wine beside him and took a quick sip from his glass when he saw Travis approach.

"Too bad we don't have time to play Star Trek: Warp Nine before the meeting," Travis remarked nonchalantly. When Peter and Neal were held captive by Azathoth, he and Mozzie had kept a long vigil with El and played the board game to help pass the time. "Neal, did I ever tell you how he cheated me out of twelve bars of gold-pressed latinum—"

"I never cheat," Mozzie retorted. "You simply don't have as profound an understanding of the game as I do. Neal, have you ever seen me cheat?"

"Let's see over the past month, I esti—"

"Just as I said, he's never seen me cheat today." While Mozzie continued to debate the finer points of game strategy with Travis, Neal mentally gave Travis points. He'd remembered Mozzie's passion for board games and had taken advantage of it. By the time their orders arrived, Mozzie was as relaxed as Quark in his bar on Deep Space Nine. When he saw Travis's order, he was clearly impressed.

Nodding with approval he said, "Tofu poke. You are a connoisseur, Space Suit. Are you a vegetarian?"

Travis nodded. "Space Suit is your designation for me? I'm honored."

He acknowledged Travis's recognition of the high compliment with a complacent tilt of his head. "How long have you been involved with SETI?"

"Since college days. I took several astronomy courses and my professor was from Berkeley which is the center for SETI research. Here in New York, I've been working on the SETI-at-home project where researchers join forces with volunteers who let their PCs be used to crunch data during down times."

"I've been actively engaged in research myself," Mozzie said. "I've been exploring which signals would most likely be used by extraterrestrials."

Travis looked at him with surprise. "Why didn't you join the SETI group earlier? Daniel Leavitt, who runs the program at Columbia, started out at Berkeley and spearheads the effort. Our working group oversees the program for the east coast and liaises with Berkeley."

"How many are in your group?" Neal asked.

"Ten of us meet at least monthly, sometimes more frequently. Most of the work is done at our homes. We perform the initial analysis of the radio transmissions before sending them on to Berkeley."

Mozzie proceeded to quiz Travis about the data they received from radio telescopes and the two were soon immersed in talk of frequencies, hydrogen lines, and something called FRB which Mozzie informed him meant Fast Radio Burst, whatever that was. Neal tried to make a few intelligent comments, but from the condescending looks he was receiving, suspected his best efforts weren't up to snuff.

He finished his meal and still had a few minutes so he left the two radio astronomers to go chat with Maggie. The language of flowers was more his style than astrophysics anyway. Maggie was Billy's daughter and an accomplished florist. She specialized in orchids and Hawaiian tropical flowers which she and Billy grew in greenhouses over the store. Neal had spotted her working at the floral counter on his way in.

Billy intercepted him on his way over. "Thanks for referring us to Angela. She came in this morning and started making sense out of the jumble of honey orders Mozzie had built up. I was afraid she might flee at the sight of them, but she seemed more amused than skittish."

"Angela managed the household accounts for her mom as a teenager. If anyone can make sense of them, she can." Neal knew Angela had excelled in the business program at the University of Washington. He suspected that had been the primary reason her grandfather had been so upset when she switched to ethnomusicology. He couldn't understand why someone who was so good at business didn't want to pursue it.

"When you called me about her, I couldn't believe our good fortune. She came by yesterday afternoon and I showed her around. She seemed particularly interested in our line of honey-based cosmetics."

"Angela and makeup are a match made in heaven."

"I could tell. Maggie has been managing the cosmetics part of the business for us but it's become a major challenge. We had no idea the skin care line would be so popular. Maggie embraced Angela like a long-lost relative when she heard of her interest. Angela's welcome to work here as many hours as she wants."

Maggie was preparing a floral arrangement with dark cobalt violet Dendrobium orchids in the floral nook. She did most of her work in the greenhouses but she'd added a nook in one corner of the store where she could work on her arrangements and also keep an eye on customers if needed. She looked up and smiled when he approached. "Did Billy tell you about Angela?"

Neal nodded. "I gather you two hit it off."

Maggie was enthusiastic in her agreement. "I'd been struggling with the cosmetics as I simply don't have the time for them. Mozzie keeps tossing me another product and telling me to do something with it. So far we've been marketing only face and eye creams, but Leon—he's one of my cousins in Hawaii—sent us a sample of honey lip balm that's very promising, and Angela thinks we could also start a line of Hawaiian honey lip glosses with floral infusions which would be very popular with the student crowd."

Neal smiled. That sounded just like Angela. She'd barely started and already was taking charge. Mozzie's honey business would be in good hands.

Maggie stood back from her arrangement to view the effect. "What do you think?"

"It's glorious. Special order?"

"Yes. I'm doing some preliminary designs for a big order to be delivered on Friday to Long Island. It's for an eighteenth birthday party. I was given instructions to make the flowers romantic and sensual." Maggie tweaked a stem and nodded approvingly. "I think that will fill the bill."

"That violet color will inspire passion in a stone," Neal said. He knew next to nothing about growing flowers but appreciated the artistry with which Maggie made her arrangements. Although not strictly ikebana, they had a definite Asian flavor to them.

"When I talked with Mrs. Rinaldi, she gave me explicit—"

"Wait, who did you say?"

"Mrs. Rinaldi," Maggie repeated, looking surprised. "Lily Rinaldi. Do you know her?"


Notes: Do you have any advice on whether Neal should go for a PhD? Send them along and I'll make sure he gets them. At this point the negatives and positives are about equally stacked.

Next week in Chapter 8: New Alliances, the Columbia crew and Mozzie meet to discuss the yellow-faced bee video, and the White Collar team draws up a plan to take advantage of Maggie's connections.

Thanks for reading and your comments and to Penna Nomen for taking time off from Caffrey Disclosure to help. Her story is at such an exciting stage—I hope you're reading it!

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
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